JACOB'S ROOM 271

together, Clara and kind little Bowley—Bowley
who had rooms in the Albany, Bowley who wrote
letters to the Times in a jocular vein about foreign
hotels and the Aurora Borealis—Bowley who
liked young people and walked down Piccadilly
with his right arm resting on the boss of his
back.

" Little demon ! " cried Clara, and attached
Troy to his chain.

Bowley anticipated—hoped for—& confidence.
Devoted to her mother, Clara sometimes felt her
a little, well, her mother was so sure of herself
that she could not understand other people being
—being—" as ludicrous as I am," Clara jerked
out (the dog tugging her forwards). And Bowley
thought she looked like a huntress and turned
over in his mind which it should be—some pale
virgin with a slip of the moon in her hair, which
was a flight for Bowley.

The colour was in her cheeks. To have
spoken outright about her mother—still, it was
only to Mr. Bowley, who loved her, as everybody
must ; but to speak was unnatural to her, yet
it was awful to feel, as she had done all day, that
she must tell some one.

" Wait till we cross the road," she said to the
dog, bending down.

Happily she had recovered by that time.